


when all else fails

by colder (perennials)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, M/M, Some cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7436337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/colder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe I just got tired of waiting, y’know?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	when all else fails

**Author's Note:**

> i stake no ownership to the numbering parts format ao3 user songs did it first and pulled it off brilliantly, now i've gone and done it and pulled it off shittily im sorry  
> also [This](http://8tracks.com/bromosexuals/a-l-w-a-y-s) is a rlly good playlist to lisen to i wrote most of this to the songs here

three.

 

“Didn't you know,” Killua says, his words trailing ash and dust, “that people become ghosts when they die?”

 

Gon presses a hand to the cool glass, brushes his thumb along the sharp jut of the other’s cheekbones. His mouth quirks up listlessly, a sad laugh bubbling out like sea foam.

 

“No,” he tells the three a.m. specter in his mirror. “No.”

 

Killua watches him with empty window-eyes, blurred outline fluorescing in the stifling darkness.

 

“You said you'd stay by my side forever.” Gon’s voice is flat and smooth (not accusatory, not blaming).

 

“ _You_ never said sorry.” Killua shrugs, casually. Flashes a cement-gray smile at Gon and leans forward, winding his arms like frayed rope-ends around his neck. When these elicit little response he tilts his head to the side childishly, a question lingering on pouting, paper-thin lips.

 

Gon drops his gaze to the crescent curve of Killua’s clavicle. It is bruised pretty purple and bottled ocean blue, flowery indents sprinkled across pale, pale skin and sometimes straying upwards, to the column of his neck or the awning of his shoulder. He wishes he could wash all these mottled death-stains away.

 

“I meant to."  _I_ _was going to._

 

“ _What are words if you really don't mean them when you say them?_ ” Killua singsongs.

 

Gon rests his head on Killua’s shoulder; it's cold, like the rest of him.

 

“I was going to.” The words are out before he can stop them.

 

“I know.” Killua hums against Gon’s cheek. “I was waiting.”

 

Pulling away from him, Killua smiles again, all moon-lights and tight-lipped abstrusity.

 

“Maybe I just got tired of waiting, y’know?”

  
  


one.

 

The hotel room is a funeral parlor and Gon’s hands are fisted in blood-red roses.

 

“What happened?” Alluka swallows painfully.

 

“What happened?” Kurapika dips his head.

 

“What happened?” Leorio lowers his gaze.

 

“What happened?” Biscuit clears her throat.

 

“What happened?”

 

No one has an answer.

 

“Tell me, tell me, tell me.” Gon is standing on a podium in a stadium large enough to hold the ghosts of five hundred, with the microphone carving angry red lines into his throat, but the audience is looking in the other direction.

 

_He’s gone_ , a tinny voice whispers inside his head.

 

“What happened?” He repeats.

  


  
two.

 

When Killua goes he leaves things behind: a favorite turtleneck, a favorite box of chocolate truffles, a favorite pair of headphones.

 

The turtleneck takes up residence in Alluka’s tiny compact suitcase, joining the ranks of crumpled candy wrappers tucked into side pockets and ripped seams like rocks in the eddying flow of a stream; the truffles are slowly picked away at by small, pale hands until the box is a mere skeletal carcass coated in chocolate powder; the headphones find a new owner.

 

When Killua goes he leaves things behind: a broken heart, a broken promise, a broken boy.

 

The broken heart belongs to everyone— they all have a part in this volcano fissure of regret, a shard of glass to add to the steadily-growing pile of _should’ves_ and _would’ves_ and _could’ves._

 

The broken promise belongs to the broken boy, whose broken heart belongs to Killua, except Killua is gone now, _Killua is not coming to the reunion dinner next Thursday or the once-in-a-lifetime circus performance tomorrow night_ , or so the solemn faces say, lips sifting like sand in slow-motion, suspended underwater, forming death sentences and empty accusations.

 

The broken boy belongs to no one now.

  
  


zero.

 

“Hey, Killua.”

 

Groaning, Killua flips himself over on the tiny mattress to face Gon, who greets him with a sleepy, soft-edged grin.

 

“Mm?”

 

“Can I say your name?”

 

He flicks Gon in the forehead. “You just did, idiot.”

 

“Ah… You're right. Sorry. Can I say it again?”

 

Killua looks away. “...if you really want to.”

 

Gon says: “Killua.”

 

(And in this moment Gon’s voice is tender, painfully tender, as if Killua to him is not hard corners and needle-sharp words and dried blood caught under jagged nails, and Killua's heart stutters like a scatter of raindrops.)

 

Gon beams at him.

 

“You'll stay by my side no matter what, won't you, Killua?”

 

Not speaking, Killua looks at the gold irises of Gon’s eyes until they melt into pools of amber liquid, disappearing into the swirling penumbra of shadows around them. He turns back around to face the wall.

 

“Only if you want me to.”

**Author's Note:**

> i need to justify this by saying i wrote something abt cute lesbians for my creative arts seminar and finally got around to adjusting and editing and rewriting it to be emo in a fic context. i have not been spending every waking moment of my life thinking about gon and killua. rlly. trust me on this  
> anyway, thanks for readin. if ya liked it leave a kudo or a comment or don't, whatever floats ur boat really  
> tumblr and twitter are both @ corpsentry if u wanna fight (or if u want to ask me things or send me requests or be my fried noodle)
> 
> have a good one


End file.
